


between the end and the ever after

by darcylindbergh



Series: things fairy tales are made of [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Engagement, Established Relationship, Fireworks, Fluff, M/M, New Year's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 16:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5593537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcylindbergh/pseuds/darcylindbergh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I love you,” John says, the first words of the new year and it feels like a promise, and then the fireworks begin in earnest, lighting up the sky behind John, and neither of them really even notice.</p><p>*</p><p>John has something to give to Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between the end and the ever after

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Между финалом и долго и счастливо](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653528) by [Make_believe_world](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_believe_world/pseuds/Make_believe_world)



“How about the Globe Theatre?”

“Oh, well, if you want to go big, let’s really go big and just do Westminster Abbey.”

“No, they’d never let me in. What about Hampton Court, how’s that for big? We could finally lose Mycroft in the hedges.”

“Oh, wait, I’ve got it--I think they do weddings at the top of the Gherkin?”

Sherlock can no longer keep a straight face and he bursts out laughing, cheeks smarting in the cold night air. “We are not getting married at the _Gherkin_ , John, ugh.”

John laughs too, knocking into Sherlock’s shoulder as they continue along the path. Primrose Hill is busy with party-goers all jostling for a view of the central London skyline, lit up like a circus in reds and yellows. The London Eye, illuminated in blue, is just visible over the tops of the trees, and the pinpricks of dim park lamps dotting the slope of the hill toward Regent’s Park spill across the grass like a landing strip, guiding the crowd forward in anticipation.

Sherlock has never been to see a New Year’s fireworks show in person before. The passage of time is generally meaningless, he’d always thought, and the chemistry involved in fireworks is fairly basic and not all that interesting. There was nothing about a fireworks display Sherlock could see in person that he couldn’t see on telly, and anyway, it wasn’t like he’d never seen something blow up before.

John, however, had been appalled, even though he’d not been to a fireworks display since he was in uni, the hypocrite. It was too late to get tickets for Westminster Bridge or the Victoria embankment (and Sherlock suspected John had even tried to ask Mycroft for a favour), but John did manage to wrangle a reservation at an incredible rustic Italian place in Highbury for the occasion. They’d split a bottle of bright citrusy white wine and stuffed themselves full of crusty bread heaped with roasted pecorino cheeses and drizzled with walnuts and honey, then shared, nearly bite for bite, John’s swordfish with roasted tomato garlic couscous and Sherlock’s half-moon cheese and mint ravioli. The restaurant had been warm and cosy and drenched in apricot tones, gleaming back gold in the reflections on John’s ring, and Sherlock would have been more than happy to spend the night tucked away in their corner, chatting with the owners in English and Italian, both him and John rolling up their sleeves to their forearms to take forkfuls of samples brought out fresh from the kitchen.

John had tugged them away, though. It had taken them just over an hour to make the walk to Primrose Hill, but it would’ve taken just as long in a cab with the traffic tonight, and they’d stopped in a tiny shop for coffees and at a street vendor for cinnamon roasted almonds and taken their time, enjoying the pace, enjoying their anonymity in the crowds.

They’d climbed up Primrose Hill nearly the top, pushing past groups of uni students and teenagers playing tinny music on their mobiles, dodging small children practically hysterical with being allowed to stay up this late. John had kept Sherlock close, grabbing his hand when he had to so they didn’t lose each other, laughing and shouting at each other over the noise and then spilling out along the top edges of the crowds into the pathways, triumphant.

They’ve passed the time cracking jokes and ducking behind tree trunks for stolen kisses, and then John had looked up thoughtfully and said they ought to get married at the Christmas Past exhibit at the Geffrye Museum, for old times' sake. It had taken Sherlock a moment to understand that he’d only been joking, and the suggestions had only gotten wilder from there. The aquarium, Bart’s morgue, and now:

“D’you think the Queen would lend us that drawing room again in Buckingham Palace? The pictures would be just lovely,” John says, gesturing his hands wide. “You could go without pants again, that’s a very good look for you, you know.”

Sherlock smirks and reaches over to swat John’s arm. “Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” he suggests, winking when John looks over exasperatedly.

“That Chinese round the corner that’s open until two,” John shoots back instead.

“The drunk tank.”

“A rooftop somewhere.”

Sherlock stops. The vision of it pops up in his mind, standing hand in hand with John at sunset and overlooking the city, their city, rising high above the battlefield they walk and pledging to always walk it together. Sherlock takes a breath, but it doesn’t seem to want to come in all the way. “Oh.”

John swings around to face him, soft smile peeking around the corners of his mouth. London stretches across the horizon behind him, sparkling with celebration. “Is that a good ‘oh,’ or a bad ‘oh?’” he asks, and then in the distance, the pods on the London Eye start blinking and all around them, people start counting down.

_Ten! Nine! Eight!_

“A good one,” Sherlock says, and in the noise he’s not really sure if John can hear him. John’s smile grows though, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

_Seven! Six! Five!_

“I can’t wait to marry you, you know,” John says back, almost too quietly through his grin. But Sherlock does hear him, and when John takes his hand Sherlock feels his ring on John’s finger, too, through his glove even, in the slight displacement of the leather.

_Four! Three! Two!_

“I love you,” Sherlock gets in, really quickly, because if the year is ending he wants to end it on the most important note, and then--

_ONE!_

And then John is kissing him.

Big Ben tolls in the distance, almost too far away to hear, fireworks trying (and failing) to discharge in time as the clock strikes twelve, and John is kissing him hard and soft and sweet and deep all at once, his left hand wrapped tight around Sherlock’s and his right sneaking up along Sherlock’s scarf, edging along his neck. Sherlock has never had a New Year’s kiss before, and he sweeps John up, his eyes turning hot along the line of his lashes.

A year ago, he’d been prepared to go to his death for John Watson. He had made the choice to protect John at all costs, and if the cost was Sherlock’s own life--well, everything had its price.

Sherlock was supposed to be dead six months ago, and instead he’s here on the top of Primrose Hill with John, planning their wedding and kissing him at midnight.

John pulls back just the tiniest bit, rubbing his nose along Sherlock’s. Across London, there’s a pause, as if the whole city is holding its breath.

“I love you,” John says, the first words of the new year and it feels like a promise, and then the fireworks begin in earnest, lighting up the sky behind John, and neither of them really even notice.

Eventually, though, John’s kisses slow into soft pecks that are more smile than lip and thumbs stroking across cheeks until finally they draw apart. Then John clears his throat and turns toward the city, finally turning his attention to the fireworks display spreading out over the Thames. “We could’ve seen it better, down by the river,” he says. “I guess since they’ve started doing tickets you have to get them way in advance.”

“Crowds aren’t really our thing,” Sherlock reminds him. “Better to be up here, I think, though it’ll probably be hell getting home.”

“We can pretend to be drunk and make out in the back of the cab.” John nudges Sherlock with his elbow, teasing. They both know that Baker Street is only about a twenty minute walk round the other side of Regent’s Park, and they’ll never catch a cab tonight anyway. “We’ll make a game of it: how far will the cabbie let us go before he kicks us out?”

“In the spirit of inquiry,” Sherlock sniffs, putting on a fake overly-dignified accent, “I suppose I could suck you off in some cabbie’s filthy backseat.” When he looks over out of the corner of his eye, though, his eye meets John’s and they dissolve into giggles.

Over London, the fireworks shoot across the sky in showers of silver and gold and red and blue, leaving their smoky ghosts drifting on the air long after the sparkle has faded. Sherlock has to admit that there’s something better about seeing it in person, something a little more magical. There’s no pre-recorded track of the year’s top 40 pop songs all mashed together, only the giggles and shouts of the crowd gathered on Primrose Hill and the bangs in the distance and John’s easy laughter beside him. His cheeks are probably pink with cold and his hair is probably a mess with the wind, but John’s cheeks are pink too, and his body is warm next to Sherlock’s, and somehow standing on top of Primrose Hill watching the fireworks in person gives the new year more power, more vitality, as if something important has changed.

So much has changed, too, over the last year. Things changed so fast, it seems, but with such a strong sense of _finally_ , and the gold-green-pink flashes and dazzling silver twinkles and red-blue-purple flares feel like a celebration of them alone: John and Sherlock, and all the things they’ve had to live through and all the living they have left to do.

The fireworks display begins to slow, no doubt in preparation for the final climax, and then Sherlock notices John isn’t watching the fireworks at all. John is watching him.

“I have something to give you,” John admits, ducking his head a little at having been caught looking. “Wasn’t sure about it, actually. I didn’t want you to think I was just doing it because I felt obligated, because I don’t, you know. That’s not what this is about.”

He’s nervous, Sherlock thinks, and Sherlock suspects, and Sherlock can’t breathe. Another round of fireworks shoot into the sky, glittering over the horizon in slow sweeping falls of gold, like the arms of a willow tree.  

John reaches into a coat pocket and pulls out a familiar small blue velvet box.

Sherlock takes a quick, thin breath through his nose, none of which reaches his lungs.

“I’m giving this to you because I know you love me, Sherlock. I know you do. I haven’t doubted it for a single second since the moment I came home. I see it in the way you look at me, and I feel it every time you touch me, and I just. I know it the way I know my own name.” He looks up. His eyes are dark and deep, reflecting the glimmer of the fireworks across the city. “But having your ring, wearing it, wearing your…your promise, reminding me every time I look down that you want to spend the rest of our lives together? It’s the best thing I’ve ever had. And I want you to have it too.”

Sherlock’s chest is so full it’s on fire, and John opens the box. Nestled inside is a simple silver ring: an identical match to the one John is wearing.

 _That’s the favour John asked of Mycroft_ , Sherlock thinks dumbly. _Wanted to know where I’d got his ring from_.

He wants to reach out and take it. He wants to reach out and snog John senseless. He wants to reach out and never let John go, but he can’t make his arms move.

Sherlock had known, abstractly, that someday he would get a ring too, because when people got married they both got rings, and John agreed to marry him. But he’d never thought--he hadn’t considered--the idea of John, tracking down the jeweler, slipping off his ring and handing it over, _want it to match this one--_ the concrete reality of a ring made to fit Sherlock specifically, made to match John’s, made to wrap their promises around Sherlock’s finger--Sherlock hadn’t thought about it as anything more than a concept, another thing on a getting-married to-do list that one day they’d sort out the way they’d sort out a guest list.

This is so much more than Sherlock ever expected, and for a moment he’s horribly ashamed that he can still be surprised by the force of John’s love, because _of course_ John would want to do this, of course it would be important to John to show Sherlock that he’s loved and wanted and wanted in love forever.

“John,” Sherlock manages. “I--thank you.” It seems inadequate, but he’s not sure what else to say.

“You’re welcome,” John answers, and he’s smiling so maybe it was an all right thing to say anyway. Sherlock strips his glove off with shaky hands and John slips the ring out of its place, tucking the box back into a pocket, and then he takes Sherlock’s left hand in both of his, and slides the ring onto Sherlock’s fourth finger, wriggling it past his knuckles until it sits, heavy and comforting, perfectly sized, at the base.

Over the river, across the city, the fireworks show has reaches its crescendo in a glorious explosion of light and colour and sound, and all around them the crowd gathered on Primrose Hill erupts into cheers, and John kisses Sherlock, telling him without words, _I love you, I want to keep you with me, I want to grow old with you forever,_ things Sherlock had known already reinforced with undeniable ferocity by the weight of a matching metal band on both their hands.

Eventually, the riot of silver and gold and red fireworks fade away into smoke, and people start drifting down the hill toward the streets, and Sherlock can’t bring himself to put his glove back on, so John takes his hand and keeps it warm as they trek down toward the bottom of the hill.

“So, New Year’s fireworks,” John says. “Worth it?”

Sherlock giggles. “If they’re that good every year, we can do it again,” he agrees.

“Dunno, they better not ever be quite _that_ good ever again,” John laughs. “Honestly, I don’t actually think I saw more than one firework tonight.”

“We’ll look it up on Youtube,” Sherlock tells him. “Like proper middle-aged Londoners who’ve had too much champagne and fallen asleep on their sofas at half-ten.”

John elbows him and says, “Maybe we’ll have fireworks at our rooftop wedding.”

The vision in Sherlock’s mind rises again, he and John hand in hand, looking out over the city in much the same way they did tonight. He’s always liked the view of London-by-rooftop, but there’s a memory gnawing at the back of his mind that sours the picture of them standing together at an edge. “I didn’t know you would be interested in that,” Sherlock says, trying to be delicate. “I thought maybe, after--um. Things on rooftops, having been what they were in the past--it didn’t seem like something you’d be interested in.”

There’s a quiet moment as John parses through what Sherlock is getting at. They walk on, following the crowd into the park where the shadows are longer among the trees, and Sherlock can’t make out the expression on John’s face. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up.

“You died for me once, on a rooftop,” John says suddenly. He stops and looks up at Sherlock, forehead creased. “You did that for me.”

Sherlock nods.

John nods back, once, sharply. “Now I want you to promise to live for me on one,” John states. “I want to write over that. I want to build something good up over top of that. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and he meets John’s smile with his own, and they walk on, into the dark blue shadows of Regent’s Park and into their future, burning bright as they rise out of the ashes of the things they have survived, hands entwined.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](http://www.watsonshoneybee.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'between the end and the ever after' by darcylindbergh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159831) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)
  * [[PODFIC] between the end and the ever after](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110644) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




End file.
